This summer cold has taken away my voice. I went through the day saying almost nothing, whispering when needed. There were nods and shakes of my head, shrugs, minimal gestures. Mostly I listened: to other people, to the sounds of children playing next door, to the cats purring, to my own sticky breathing, to my beloved’s quiet singing in the car.
I am always surprised by the sound of my voice on recordings. We sound much lower inside our own heads, which makes perfect acoustic sense but still startles me. I sound like a little girl; my laugh is bizarre and whooping. Not-so-secretly I have always wished for a lower, sexier voice, something that prowls around vowels and shudders spines, chuckles that emanate whisky and chocolate. Today I would just like my own voice back, because I miss it.
One thing I like about my voice is that I sound a lot like my mom. She is a professional actor and voiceover artist, so I don’t sound like her when she’s performing, but many people have told me that they can’t tell our voices apart in casual conversation. I admire her voice so much that if mine is like hers, it can’t be all bad.
(This entry is part of one month of gratitude.)